


You Take the High Road, and I'll Take the Low

by aesthete_laureate



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Bill Cipher is His Own Warning, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Fear, He's in Ford's body, Hypothermia, Identity Issues, Light Bondage, Lima Syndrome, Lots of fun stuff let me know if I missed anything or did too much :), M/M, Mild Sexual Content, POV Second Person, Power Imbalance, Psychological Torture, TW: I can't tell the difference between American Southern slang and Irish slang, for sure, not stockholm syndrome, threat of drowning, threat of electrocution, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:40:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28437036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aesthete_laureate/pseuds/aesthete_laureate
Summary: In which Bill has a unique idea of a good time, and luckily one of his favorite toys is always within arm’s reach.
Relationships: Bill Cipher/Fiddleford H. McGucket, Fiddleford H. McGucket & Ford Pines, Fiddleford H. McGucket/Ford Pines
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	You Take the High Road, and I'll Take the Low

**Author's Note:**

> POV is Fiddleford just so that’s clear!
> 
> I had a dream in which i'm pretty sure the participants were from game of thrones but i’m more comfortable writing ford/ford than That Shit so I thought "we’ll just shoehorn ramsay bolton into bill cipher and it'll be grand x"
> 
> Title from "Loch Lomond" which has been stuck in my head for a few days at this point.

He won’t tell you his name. This nightmare of a creature that takes him over, your -- your what. Employer? Partner? Friend? -- at night. Still, you know it’s him because Ford doesn’t talk like that, and because of the white-hot yellow glow of his eyes, and because he’s cruel in a way that Stanford isn’t, at least not intentionally.

This is by far the worst situation you’ve found yourself in with him, and you’re including the time you broke your arm in the grasp of a forest troll five times your size after the very same monster had injected you with neurotoxins that made your reaction time agonizingly slow and its burning eyes had given you a vision of--

Ugh. No. You’d reach for your trusty memory gun if you could, but your hands are otherwise occupied at the moment.

Actually, that’s a bit of a lie. Your hands aren’t doing anything - you would reach for the aforementioned invention if you could use your hands at all. But as it stands, you can’t. They’re lashed together with what feels like a quarter-inch electronic cable if you twist your wrists, but to be honest it’s hard to tell because of the numbness that had settled in long before you’d woken up in this position.

You don’t know where he is, just that he’s here. And probably watching you, you’re always being watched. Even when he’s asleep, when Ford is awake and himself, there are eyes all over the cabin that, once you started to look for them, stand out clear as day and follow your every move. He’s probably waiting until you’ve cried yourself out again, he said last time that it’s fun to watch you do that, but he can’t really start his games until you’ve calmed down at least a little. He likes you to be responsive.

And you are, he’d said, you’re so, so fun to play with. Your heart rate is unbelievable, I’ve never seen anything like it! Say, how long do you think it can handle going this fast until you pass out on me again? Let’s make a bet…

You’d lost that bet. You always do, every game he starts with you. Even on the odd chance it ever begins to look like you might come out on top, he changes the game, moves the goalposts, and when you get frustrated he laughs at you, with that grating high-pitched voice that’s always just too loud.

Well, he’s in luck. Again. As always. There comes a point where a body just can’t cry anymore, there’s nothing left in it, and yours has reached that point now. You sag down against what feels like the bathtub, and the weight of your body puts strain on your shoulders with the way your arms are pulled up over your head. The porcelain is cold against your bare back and legs. It would appear he had already taken the liberty of divesting you of your clothes, with the small mercy of leaving you your underwear. You know what, you’ll count your blessings.

When you’re sure no more tears are coming, you exhale raggedly, eyes squeezing shut against the near pitch darkness of the room before you crack them open again and speak up. You can’t see much (your glasses could be absolutely anywhere), but there’s a sliver of light under where you know the bathroom door is. Your voice is wrecked, scratchy and thick from crying, but there’s no doubt that he’ll hear it, he’s waiting for you.

“..where are you?”

It’s not unexpected when he bursts through the door, letting in a flood of light that stings your eyes, but the sound still makes you flinch away, tucking your chin down into your shoulder. As if you could make yourself smaller, as if you could hide from him.

“Well, well, Flashdance, I almost thought you’d never ask!” and he’s grinning with Ford’s face like he’s touched in the head (you know he’s more than just that), flicking on the naked bulb over the sink mirror with a sharp click that has you cringing, your knees bending as your body tries to curl in on itself. You can’t, it’s slippery in the tub, your bare feet just skate uselessly over the surface of it, and you’re shaking so hard.

“Tell you what, tech guy,” he’s holding a box under one arm, you can make out a little flash of red that contrasts with the black of the rest of it, but it’s out of your line of sight once he places it on the floor and takes a seat on the edge of the tub. You watch him warily from behind your arm. “I thought I’d get bored of you a lot quicker. My original plan was to get Sixer here to boot you out as soon as possible, but, haha!” His laugh is shrill and familiar, and it sends a bolt of panic down your spine that results in a twitch of your legs. “Oh, man. I can’t get rid of you. Not yet. I’d miss you too much, you’re making this old inorganic entity sentimental.” With another theatrical flick of his hand, he pretends to wipe tears from his eyes, and then he’s leaning down over you. 

His body blocks the light, he’s so much bigger than you are, and you start to squirm, unsure if he’s going to touch you or not. He doesn’t, instead he reaches between your bound arms for the faucet and unceremoniously turns the knob. There’s the squeak of metal on metal right in your ear, and when cold water splashes over your head and pours down the back of your neck, you really start to panic.

Is this it? No. No. He’s going to drown you. It’s not a good way to go, you know that, you’d seen one of the neighbor’s boys go that way when you were children, it’s slow and painful and you’re not ready for it. God, no.

You thrash against your binds, but they stay firmly in place, your tugging and twisting no more effective than the pitiful flapping of a bird with broken wings - and you’re breathing so rapidly, why is there no air in your lungs? The water is icy cold on the nape of your neck, your shoulders, and some flattens your hair to your forehead and gets in your eyes, drips down the bridge of your nose and into your mouth. You spit it out, start coughing when you swallow the wrong way, and gasp, and more floods into your windpipe. 

This is it, you’re sure you’re dying, but... it goes on for far longer than you thought it would. When the water starts to rise around you, you think maybe he’s just going to wait for it to cover your head and do it that way, but once you’re submerged to the shoulders he reaches back down and turns the tap off.

You’re beyond exhausted. Your body tries to go limp, but you’re shivering from fear and the cold so hard that it can’t. You’re strung taut like a fifth string and your muscles quiver from how tense they’re locked up. His hand comes to rest heavily on the top of your head, and your eyes fall shut as he presses down, a choked whimper coming from you as your head is forced to tilt forward until your mouth and nose are underwater. You don’t try to fight him, he’s so much stronger than you are. You should have taken a deep breath, you knew he was going to do this, but you didn’t, and your lungs are burning already. 

He keeps you there, chuckles when you reflexively try to draw in air, your chest and stomach spasming even though you try to keep your mouth resolutely shut. In no time you’re twitching, kicking at the water, he’s getting splashed but doesn’t react, and your eyes spring open just in time for your vision to start greying out. This is it. The last thing you’ll ever see are his glowing yellow eyes, pupils slitted like a cat’s, grinning down at you with his fingers tangled in your hair.

He lets you go.

Your head whips back, skull cracking against the porcelain of the bathtub (luckily not the metal of the faucet), and you wheeze brokenly. Water pours out of your nose, leaving the inside stinging and raw, and you cough violently in an attempt to clear your throat of the stuff. A few rivulets drip down over your chin - equal parts tap water and saliva - as you breathe in rapid, staggering gasps, and your eyes are even more unfocused than they usually would be as you stare down at your own quivering body uncomprehendingly. You’re not dead.

He’s laughing. 

“Wow, nice show! You didn’t actually think I’d let you die like that, did you, Fiddlesticks?” Slowly, you turn your eyes up to him, panting heavily but otherwise remaining silent. He stares right back at you, oddly pensive as he takes in your expression. “No, you did?” he has the gall to look offended, or at least an approximation of the word, “here I thought you were supposed to be a smart guy too! Smart guy two, more like, with the-, you get me.” 

In a split second, his hand is back in your hair, and this time you manage to draw in a quick lungful of air in anticipation - but he doesn’t dunk you into the water this time. His fingers card through the wet strands, catching on tangles here and there, each a little spark of pain. A drop of water falls from his soaked sweater cuff onto your cheek, and when you look back up at his face, your mouth open and naked fear in your eyes, he gives you an uncharacteristically soft, almost approving, smile. It’s oddly, terrifyingly gentle for him, and you get the sinking feeling that he hasn’t even really started yet.

His hand leaves your hair, then, and your head sags forward. He shifts where he’s seated, and in the small moment of quiet you watch as the water laps at your chest. He’s not going to drown you after all. The implications of his statement are far worse, he sounds as if he’s already planned out a spectacular and no doubt agonizing way for your life to end, and probably in excruciating detail. At least the water doesn’t feel so cold anymore. Either it’s warmed up from your body heat or, more likely, it’s leeched the warmth from you and your body is in hypothermic shock.

You’re pulled out of your thoughts when he abruptly turns back toward you, and the shape he’s holding in his hand is odd but you recognize it immediately - it’s the end of a jumper cable and-- oh, dear Lord, no. Instinctively, you start to writhe in your bonds again.

The box he had brought in, it’s a car battery.

He leans down, away from you, and there’s a click when he flips the switch. The soft buzz of electricity easily fills the small room, it’s nearly silent aside from that and your rapid breathing. Soft, barely audible little “no… no..”s escape you with each panting exhale, and the water ripples around your body as your legs shift uneasily under the surface. You’re pretty sure he can hear your heartbeat, too, it’s pounding in your ears and nearly beating right out of your chest, going so fast you’re starting to feel lightheaded. He was right. This will be a much, much worse way to go.

The metal clamp of the cable is brought close to the surface of the water, and you go deathly still. You can’t watch, your eyes fall shut again, tears welling up hot even though you could have sworn that there weren’t any left in you. There’s a pause, then, enough time passes for a tear to spill over, trickling slowly down your cheek. In the still silence, your ensuing sob echoes off the walls.

But you’re still not dead. You haven’t even been zapped. He’s just toying with you, you realize when he pulls the jumper cable away, and then he slowly brings it back close to the water. This time, you twitch away from it, pressing your body to the far side of the cold tub as if the meager distance would help you against an electric current of that magnitude. Another helpless, hiccuping sob escapes your mouth, but he’s clearly having a wonderful time of it.

“Wow, that’s cute, your heart rate spikes like something else!” He sounds positively gleeful, and even though you don’t dare look up at him you know he’s got that grin on his-- on Ford’s face again. “Look, look, it slows down..” he draws away, “and then, bam, it’s right back to hammering away like a jackrabbit!” the metal dips dangerously low into the tub - you can practically feel the current emanating from it, the little hairs on your arms and legs, all over your body, standing on end.

This goes on for what feels like an eternity. He really, really gets a kick out of watching your heart rate spike and even out, spike and even out. You’re a quivering and wailing mess by the time he tires of this game, body strung out and exhausted from vacillating wildly between anticipation of and recoiling from the threat of approximately fifteen hundred volts, and your mind feels hazy, as if you’re not fully in your own body anymore.

But he does tire, eventually, and drops the red cable to the floor with little fanfare, kicking at the battery box to get it to switch back off.

Then, he reaches up, and there’s a sudden give before your arms flop down into the tub, splashing water around without really making much of a difference. Everything is already soaked. You can’t move your arms, they’re the cold sort of numb that will eventually turn warm, then unbearable with pins and needles as normal blood flow returns. It’s not the worst you’ve had. The water sloshes around your body as he moves you about, shifting you too easily, as if you weigh nothing.

Another mouthful of water ends up just getting swallowed, you don’t have the energy left to spit it out. Your forehead presses to the side of the tub, and you exhale shakily, eyelashes fluttering. Then, there’s the rustling of fabric behind you and a sudden shift in temperature, warmth radiating from him as he slips into the bathtub behind you and presses his now bare body against yours. It’s hardly comfortable, this tub isn’t big by any standards, and he’s clearly curled up in a way that must be downright painful, but you can’t move.

He must decide that this won’t do, because before you know it he’s lifting you into his lap and settling his back against the wall with only his legs under the water instead. You’re limp, dead weight, but he maneuvers you easily. The air feels oddly warm against your chilled skin, though it should feel cold from the evaporation. The nerves in your arms scream at you as they come back to life, burning in a pattern that, if you close your eyes, looks for all the world like television static. Your head falls heavily back against his shoulder, a quiet, mournful sound escaping you without your express permission.

What’s he doing? The question nearly makes its way out of your mouth, but it sticks on your tongue when he shifts -- and now you can feel exactly what he’s after. The warm, hard press - evidence of just how much he’d enjoyed his little game - sends another bolt of panic down your spine, but it’s sluggish, your adrenaline shot and your sympathetic nervous system fried from overexertion. 

It’s not quick, he takes his time with you. He always does.

Your skin is slick and so his hands skate easily up and down over your sides, curling around your ribs with an ease that makes it painfully clear just how easily he could crush you if he wanted to, even in his right mind, without the demon there. He seems to like the little hitch of your breath when he squeezes your hips, touch dipping just below the waistband of your underwear, and so he squeezes down again and you’ll have purple fingerprint bruises there come tomorrow. But you gasp again, a sweet little hiccup of a breath, and he hums his approval low into your ear.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were enjoying this, listen to you,” he taunts, and his voice is jarring because it’s loud, and brash, and he has no idea what he’s talking about. 

(You don’t want him. The fact that he’s in Ford’s body, though - if you were not to lie, you couldn’t say that you never thought about your friend in some sort of way. But not in this way, not like this. And not since school, anyway, when you’d blamed such thoughts on too many long, lonely nights studying alone.)

You’re yanked back out of your own head when he shoves one hand down the front of your briefs, and suddenly his hand is curling hot around your most vulnerable, intimate place and you can’t do anything except squirm weakly, a thin whine of protest eking out of your mouth. You’re completely soft, but he doesn’t seem to mind that - he actually seems to like it, if the way he groans lowly is anything to go by. Just as quickly though, his hand is pulled out from under your waistband and he nuzzles instead into the top of your shoulder.

He... doesn’t actually seem to be trying to get off, he just seems to want to touch you. 

Somehow, it’s worse this way, you think. If he just wanted a warm body to rub off against, you could pretend that it wasn’t personal, but this - the way his familiar, six-fingered hands knead at your hips, try to encircle your waist (he can reach nearly all the way around, you realize with a start, you haven’t been eating very well), the way his thumb traces over the dips and valleys of your rib cage - it’s intimate, intent, and he’s obviously interested in you specifically.

It goes on like this for another eternity. His lips press to the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, and you shiver, caught between disgust and some nameless, much more dangerous emotion. His hands map over you like he’s trying to memorize everything by touch, every ridge where bone pokes out against your skin, each soft little place where baby fat once had been and lean muscle had never quite taken its place. But finally, finally, he gets bored of your body and shoves you out of his lap. 

The lukewarm water sloshes around you again as you flail to keep your head above the surface, and as he clambers out of the tub he pulls the plug, so that it finally, blessedly starts to drain. You lay there, quietly, as the water level goes down, and then the cold starts to actually set in. You still can’t move, you’re shuddering with cold and weak from exhaustion, so he scoops you up and sits you down on the edge of the tub, wraps a towel around you.

He helps you get dressed. It’s not a kindness to you. It’s so that, when Ford wakes up, there won’t be anything for him to notice and ask questions about. Your gaze lifts warily, you can’t meet his eyes, but you can glare at his chest, so you do. “What.. y-you.. are you ever gonna tell me your name?” 

He gives you a bemused little look, you can feel it, feel how one corner of his mouth twitches upward for a brief moment. “Mm, no. I don’t think you get to know that. And anyway, he’d be so upset.”

“Why are you doin’ this?” Your voice is so small, you sound so broken. Broken like the screen door in your childhood home, springs rusted, rotting away behind the tool shed.

He just laughs, then, and tilts his head to one side, “see ya next time, tech guy,” and then he’s gone - and your Ford is back. He staggers, falls to his knees, and you’re by his side in a flash, one arm sliding over his shoulders. You have to make sure he’s okay. And like always, when he looks up at you with frightened blue eyes and asks you what happened, you don’t say a word.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you! This is my first fanfic ever, actually, please don't be too unkind :)


End file.
